Weekly meditations from your humble messenger
March
of the Toasters
(Battlestar
Galactica, 10/16/06)
By Nicholas Nicastro
Those
of a certain age remember the original Battlestar Galactica—a
post-Star Wars ABC-TV show that was cheesier than gruyere fondue
and curdled about as fast. Others may be vaguely aware that the Sci-Fi
Channel has been running a "reimagined" version of the series,
but between terrorist threats, conflicts over religion in politics,
debates over torture and civil rights, loose nukes, and other real-world
crises, who has time for Carter-era recycled space opera on cable TV?
The surprising answer: anybody interested
in terrorism, religion in politics, and debates over torture and civil
rights should make time for the new Galactica (Fridays, 9pm).
The critics have been comparing it to shows like 24 and Lost,
but there's really nothing like it on the networks. In its complexity,
its fearless relevance, and its refusal to blunt its edge for wider
acceptance, it really belongs in the top tier of shows appearing anywhere.
Yes, I'm serious.
The new version starts with the
same premise as the original: in some indeterminate timeline that is
neither past nor future, the Twelve Colonies of the human race are annihilated
in a surprise attack by their former servants, a cyborg race known as
the Cylons. 50,000 human survivors escape in a motley fleet of space
freighters, pleasure craft, and passenger liners, led by the Galactica,
a nearly-defunct warship. Supplies dwindling, constantly hunted by the
Cylons, the refugees have only one hope: to reach the semi-mythical
thirteenth colony called Earth.
Aside from the names of the major
characters, that's where the resemblance to the old show ends. Here
the human fleet is less whiz-bang Buck Rogers than something out of
Frontline—the secular/military faction under the Ataturk-like
Admiral Adama (Edward James Olmos) seems to spend less time fighting
the Cylons than manuevering against the faith-based civilian administration
of President Laura Roslin (Mary McDonnell). The latter, in turn, is
the target of a refusnik wing led by a Timothy McVeigh-ish demogogue
(Richard Hatch). The Cylons, which were played by guys in tin-foil suits
in the old show, now come in two flavors: nasty, Terminator-type robots
with Ginsu blades for fingers ("toasters"), or fleshy replicants
that are indistinguishable from people ("skin jobs"). The
skin jobs are all too eager to slum amongst us, trying out their human
capacities. One model (Trisha Helfer), a platinum-blonde sylph with
a taste for slit skirts and Manolos, laid the groundwork for the Cylon
sneak attack by fraternizing intimately with the egomanical Dr. Gaius
Baltar (James Callis). When he threatens to turn her in, she asks "And
what will you tell them? That you were f-cking a Cylon for two years?"
For the last two seasons, Galactica
has been busy reflecting our post-traumatic zeitgeist with reckless
topicality. The threat of the humanoid Cylons neatly captures our post-9/11
fear of infiltration. One of the series' intriguing wrinkles is that
the robots are devotedly religious—monotheistic where the humans
are pagan, in fact—raising the subversive specter of the mechanism
than is at the same time pitiless, rational, and holier-than-thou. Their
machine faith doesn't protect them from rough treatment at the hands
of the humans, though: in a memorable episode, hot-shot fighter chick
Kara "Starbuck" Thrace (Katee Sackhoff) gets to waterboard
a captured Cylon, earning her a reprimand from the President (imagine
that!). Roslin, who is no slouch in the ruthlessness department, prefers
to extract the information in a polite interview—then flush the
Cylon out an airlock without a spacesuit.
The premiere episode of the third
season suggests that executive producer/writer Ronald Moore is about
to take the series to whatever realm of granularity that lies beyond
"gritty." Exhausted from the chase, and despite the misgivings
of Adama and Roslin, the civilians in the fleet vote to settle down
on the desolate but habitable planet of New Caprica. Their new home,
which looks like a cross between the port of Long Beach and a junkyard,
is almost immediately discovered by the enemy. Surprisingly, the toasters
occupy the place but hold their fire—it seems the humanoid Cylons
have had twinges of bad conscience about eradicating humanity. The New
Capricans aren't grateful; led by ex-Galactica second-in-command
Colonel Tigh (Michael Hogan), who has the look of Captain Ahab and the
political subtlety of Abu Musab al Zarqawi, the human insurgents launch
a wave of suicide bombings against the occupation. Roslin objects, but
what rules of war apply against an army of machines? The attacks continue,
the Cylons crack down, and the brave new world of human-Cylon amity
is looking like a bad day in Falluja.
Does all this sound a bit grim for
a Friday night? Dark it is, but let's be fair: in a world where shows
like CSI, The Shield, Nip/Tuck, The Sopranos, The Wire, etc.
are critical and popular hits, it's hard to argue that viewers can't
stomach a little harmless space opera. What makes this show more intriguing
than, say, 24, is that it poses the tough thematic questions
without pretending to have the answers. The never-pausing adventures
of Jack Bauer, with its unabashed celebration of torturing terrorist
scum, has already been used by Bush apologists to argue that Americans
approve of "alternative interrogation techniques." In Galactica,
we see the impulse to torture, the act, and the aftermath, and none
of it leads to simple conclusions. Indeed, any American show that makes
suicide bombing comprehensible—though of course not acceptable—should
not be just recommended viewing, but required.
Fox News loves 24. The political
response to Galactica, on the other hand, has been vociferous
and ambivalent. That's exactly where good art should be.
©2006 Nicholas Nicastro
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